Prickly Path
 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW I GOT HERE

​

      It was the middle of April, 2001. The day we landed on 32 acres of farmland in Central California. The week before we celebrated Carol’s fifty-something birthday. I’d retired early from my company job four months before. We spent much of what we had and took out a loan to make this moment happen – waking up on property we’d fallen in love with. 
     That first morning, I crawled out of bed in our tiny and shabby new home. We’d drove a pickup we just bought with our bed and a few other things down from our beautiful Bay Area home, now up for sale, the day before. Not quite up to the hints of mouse-droppings inside, I sipped morning coffee standing outside the front door in warm sun and considered just how insane this was. 
     The house could be upgraded, except we had no income beyond a meager pension from the job I left. There was no business plan as I looked across our patch of rich hilly soil at an orange orchard. Unhappy looking trees obviously needed water. I’d have to figure out how to make that happen after some coffee. The most noticeable feature was weeds, already a few feet tall in the California warmth. My eyes immediately went to sun kissed hills across Santa Rosa Creek at the bottom of our property. This view was among untold tantalizing reasons we were here. I’ll probably get to those other reasons to make this story whole. We’ll see. But as stunning as the sight was, the churning worry that had worked my belly for weeks wouldn’t go away.

     Carol walked out of the house. “We have a farm!” she said sipping her coffee through a huge smile. 
     “Yeah,” I replied less eagerly. 
     We stood there, arms around one another, taking in the panorama on this tiny parcel of the world we were crazy about. Unmentioned that morning was that getting things going was uncharted territory. Both of us fit and relatively young, we had chosen this path. We knew the challenge we’d looked for, with uncertainty ahead, was what we signed on to. 
     Within weeks, my hands were really dirty. Evenings were filled with starting a consulting business based on my 30-year career. And, we’d already ordered five hundred blueberries to plant in great soil down by Santa Rosa Creek. We were excited to experiment with the first varieties of blueberries tailored to grow in California. Heightened euphoria helped to stave off the state of vulnerability. 

       The next few months, a couple of years, in truth, were filled with seventy hour weeks, as if I'd never left the old job. I didn't mind a bit. Each of those hundred or so weeks were chock full of learning, new friends, and, lastly, money to pay the bills. Starting a business is an exciting thing. All the events that fill the media, like 911, became something Carol and I talked about until we got to something important: what were going to do tomorrow and next week.
     Twenty-four years since 911 those blueberries we planted are more than five feet tall and topped with fruit that will be ready to harvest in several weeks. More plots were planted. Locals became accustomed to finding fresh blueberries at the several farmers markets we sold at. So much more to tell, as well, about this magic plot of land that helped me tune out mundane politics, constant exhaustion, and too much booze that once controled and limited me. I still stand outside the door of our handsomely remodeled house in sunshine with coffee. 
     Not gone, weeds remain an easily forgotten, constant chore. Acres of avocado trees adorn once barren hillsides and enhance the spectacular natural beauty. It continues to charm me. Below the porch the sun glistens off webs covering dozens of tarantula holes in a small unplanted area next to our house, and I await the adult ‘wolf spiders’ annual fall trek down the hill in the fall. There’s too much more to even begin a recount here. Maybe I’ll get to some of it later. 
     At almost eighty, we’ve stopped planting and have cut back our business – it’s time to move on. But buying this weedy, poorly maintained 32 acres and the ragged small house was no doubt our best decision ever. It’s very sad to leave a place and business we’ve put so much of ourselves into. But happily, we have found folks interested in turning this plot into their dream.
      My connection to the land blossomed with these years away from the city. Challenges of corporate work were mind-numbing with constant travel. What fills me now will no doubt make the years I have remaining far more satisfying. It may well prove impossible to explain why, but for a first time in my life I can carefully consider and then attempt to flesh out concepts like my connection to the land. And this is my start to a bigger story than you might possibly imagine.

      The few of you who live near Cambria, California will be accustomed to seeing me at the Friday afternoon farmer’s market. Dragon Spring Farm was well known for oranges, avocados, blueberries, fresh-picked summer vegetables and the many “value-added” products (California’s name) that came out of Carol’s Kitchen. Much of this will still be at the Cambria market under the care of new owners, The Stardust Grove. Our daughter, Rebecca, and husband Jeff are also there with produce from their nearby farm, Better Organics. 
      Meanwhile, Carol and I plan to give our old bones a rest while trying to keep our bodies and brains healthy. Decades of experience over a bunch of callings help us keep calm in the face of hysteria that occupies today’s media. What we’ve experienced in the six decades since Dylan said, “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” might provide some eye openers for many readers.